Long Ago, And Once Again
by Kirk Hastings
Summary: Milt Hardcastle once again encounters the woman he almost married as a young man during World War II featured in the TV episode The Long Ago Girl, but this time someone is out to kill her! Can Milt and Mark find the killer before he tries again?


**LONG AGO, AND ONCE AGAIN**

_by Kirk Hastings_

(Based on characters created by Patrick Hasburgh and Stephen J. Cannell)

_Milton C. Hardcastle is a retired judge from the Los Angeles Superior Court. Mark McCormick, an ex-race car driver turned thief, was Hardcastle's last case. McCormick has been placed in the judge's custody, and together they're going after 200 cases that walked out of Hardcastle's courtroom on technicalities._

**M**ark took one last look at himself in the mirror, straightening his sport jacket until it was just right. He stared up and down at himself, inspecting every inch of his reflection.

Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all.

He turned to leave and suddenly thought of one more thing. He took his index finger and rubbed it back and forth across his upper teeth.

Yep. Squeaky clean!

But, just to be sure, he pulled a small breath freshener out of his pocket and squirted it twice into his mouth.

_Hmmm. Cinnamon. Perfect! Cyndy _loves_ cinnamon!_

Finally satisfied, he walked out of the gatehouse and headed across the lawn toward Hardcastle's house.

"You lucky dog, you!" he thought. "Then again … it's probably _Cyndy_ who's gonna be the lucky one tonight!"

He started humming "Never My Love" to himself as he pulled the front door to the house open. He stepped inside and headed for the den, where he could hear the TV playing.

Hardcastle was sitting in the overstuffed chair in front of the set, dressed in his usual baseball cap and sweat outfit. As Mark entered the room Hardcastle twisted around to look up at his young protégé.

"You're just in time!" he said. "The popcorn should be just about ready! Sit down!" He gestured toward the other chair as he turned back toward the TV set.

Mark stopped dead in his tracks.

"Judge, what is this?" he said, puzzled.

"You know what it is! It's movie night!" Hardcastle replied, not turning around. "I've got it all set up and ready to go! Now sit down!"

A look of frustration crossed Mark's face.

"Judge, did you forget?"

Hardcastle turned and looked back at Mark again.

"Forget? Forget what? What did I forget?"

"Judge, I've got a _date_ tonight. With Cyndy Wenzek."

Hardcastle stared for a moment at Mark, as if trying to drink in this sudden revelation.

"Oh," he finally said, his memory returning. "Oh yeah. I guess I did." Slowly he turned back toward the TV and waved McCormick off. "Well, go. Have a good time."

Instead of leaving Mark just stood there. He _hated_ it when the judge did that … used that "I'm totally disappointed in you" tone of voice! Now he felt guilty as hell because he was going out on a hot date instead of staying home and watching some tired old black-and-white movie!

His conscience tweaked at him. "Judge, if you really want me to stay …" he started.

"No, no! It's all right!" Hardcastle insisted. "Go ahead! Go out! Cyndy what's-her-face is probably all hot and heavy waiting for you! Go!"

Mark still did not move. After a moment he walked over toward the end table beside Hardcastle's chair.

"What's playing?" he asked, trying to feign interest. He was actually thinking about being in Cyndy's long, slender arms right now … but he picked up the empty video cassette box lying on the table and looked at the cover anyway.

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Not Jane Bigelow _again!_"

Hardcastle turned and snatched the box out of Mark's hand.

"What do you mean, _again_?" he bellowed.

Mark sighed. "Judge, we've been watching nothing _but _Jane Bigelow movies for the past month! I've seen every one of her pictures at least _three times_ already!"

Hardcastle screwed up his face at Mark. "Well, _excuse_ me if I've been boring you to death, kid!" he snapped. "I happen to _like_ Jane Bigelow's movies! Of course, I know _you_ prefer more _recent_ movies – the kind where everybody is hopping in and out of bed with each other, when they're not busy splattering some guy's guts all over in widescreen and Technicolor!"

There was a moment of stony silence. Then Hardcastle added: "You better get going, sport! You're already late for your date with Cyndy what's-her-name!" He turned back and stared at the TV set, making a point of ignoring Mark in the process.

For a long moment both men stayed right where they were. No one moved.

Then Mark finally broke the icy stillness.

"Judge, why don't you call her?"

"Call who?" Hardcastle replied, not looking up.

Resigning himself to being late for his date, Mark moved over and sat down in the other chair. "You know who!" he said. "Don't play games with me, judge! You've been thinking about her for weeks! That's what's really been behind this Jane Bigelow marathon, hasn't it?"

"Since when did you become 'shrink-of-the-month', McCormick?" the judge spat back. "Look, you may know that street monster of a car of yours inside out, but that doesn't mean you know me the same way! So back off!"

Mark hung his head in exasperation. "Okay, okay. Maybe I'm wrong," he responded, with just a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "Maybe I'm just imagining this whole thing. This probably doesn't have anything to _do_ with you wondering why you haven't heard anything from Jane since she went to San Francisco six months ago. It's probably all just a coincidence!"

"That's _right!_" Hardcastle shouted back. "It's all just a coincidence!"

Another stony silence.

"I really should go. Cyndy's waiting for me," Mark finally said.

"Go," Hardcastle said.

Mark slowly stood up.

"You sure you'll be all right?" he asked.

"_Sure _I'll be all right," Hardcastle responded, his voice calm now. "I'm a grown man. We'll do the movie some other night."

Mark stared at the judge. "Okay," he replied, somewhat skeptical. He looked at the judge for another moment or two, then reluctantly headed toward the door.

When he reached it he paused for a moment and looked back at the judge's chair. The movie was just starting on the TV, and Hardcastle's eyes were glued on it.

Shrugging his shoulders, Mark turned and walked out of the house.

A moment passed. Then Hardcastle mumbled to himself: "I don't need that kid to watch a Jane Bigelow movie." He reached up and flicked the light out.

Within a half-an-hour he was sound asleep, snoring loudly in front of the still-playing TV.

The next morning, Mark came into the den wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and carrying a large pair of hedge shears. Hardcastle was on the telephone at his desk.

"Yeah. Yeah," Hardcastle was saying. Mark stopped on the steps and listened.

"No! You're kidding!" Hardcastle went on. "I don't believe it! Yeah."

Mark's curiosity was in high gear now. He had to hang around and find out what this was all about!

"Yeah. No. Yeah. Unbelievable," Hardcastle continued. "All right. Thanks for the inside information, Dave. I owe ya one."

Hardcastle hung up the phone. He and Mark stared at each other.

"Well?" Hardcastle finally said, playing innocent. "Did you finish trimming that hedge near the pool yet? Your clippers need sharpening, or what?"

Mark came over to the judge's desk. "Ohhhh no, judge. You don't get off that easy!" he announced. "What was all that about on the phone? It sounded important!"

"Nothing. It was nothing," Hardcastle replied, trying to sound nonchalant. He swiveled his chair around and looked out the window.

Having none of this Mark laid down the shears, came around the judge's desk, and grabbed his chair by the arms, swinging it around to face him.

"Judge, I'm not going away until you tell me what that was all about!" Mark told him in a no-nonsense voice, leaning over right in his face.

"All right, all right!" Hardcastle snorted, pushing Mark away and swiveling back around to his desk. "That was Dave Matson on the phone."

"The attorney?" Mark replied.

"Yeah."

"Well, what did he want? Why did he call?"

"He didn't call. I called him."

Mark waited patiently for the next bit of information, which didn't come.

"And _why_ did we call him, judge?" Mark asked, getting exasperated.

"Well," the judge began, "I called him to see if he could tell me what happened with Chip Meadows's trial."

Angry now, Mark picked the hedge shears back up and held them open in a threatening position towards the judge.

"_And_ …"

"Dave said Meadows has been found guilty of embezzlement, and Bob Gleason's murder, but with extenuating circumstances."

Mark stared at the judge. "Extenuating circumstances? What the hell does that mean?"

Hardcastle got up from his chair and moved over to the center of the room. "Meadows had been on medication for depression for some time, and the judge ruled that the medication was probably a large part of the reason Meadows did the things he did," he continued. "It seems that up until he started taking the pills, Meadows was a fairly straight-up guy. So the judge remanded Meadows to a hospital facility in San Francisco for treatment. Final sentencing won't happen until Meadows has completed detox."

Mark stood there for a moment, pondering this news.

"Wait. What about the other guy that was with Meadows on the mountain?" Mark asked. "Didn't Meadows kill him too?"

"You mean Don Bates, the controller for Meadows's hotel chain, that was supposedly in on the embezzlement."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, that's him. Wasn't Meadows charged with _his_ murder?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "They can't prove anything there. Bates's body supposedly fell into a couple-thousand-foot-deep crevasse, and they never found him. So Meadows can't be charged with his murder. No body."

Both men were quiet for a moment. Then Mark broke the silence.

"So what are you gonna do?" he asked.

Hardcastle threw his hands up in exasperation. "I don't know! How the hell should I know?" he bellowed. Then he turned on McCormick. "What are you doin' standin' around here when the hedges still need trimming? Get goin'!"

Mark knew that signaled the end of the discussion, and that Hardcastle couldn't take any more aggravation. He turned and sprinted out of the den.

But as he headed for the pool he determined that somehow he was going to help Hardcastle get some answers concerning Jane Bigelow's rightful place in his life.

"I still can't believe you talked me into this," Cyndy said, as the Coyote approached the southern suburbs of San Francisco.

"You mean after all this time you still don't understand exactly how my natural charm and animal magnetism works?" Mark replied with a grin.

This got a well-deserved smirk from Cyndy. "No – I mean how you talked me into coming all the way up here with you to look up some old girlfriend of Milton's. And just how did you explain this trip to the judge?"

"I just told him I was taking you to Frisco for the weekend to visit some of your relatives, that's all."

"And he actually bought that?"

"Sure. I'm a sincere kinda guy. Why wouldn't he?"

At Gull's Way, Hardcastle slammed down the telephone on his desk.

"I knew it!" he shouted. "Cyndy doesn't HAVE any relatives that live in San Francisco. That stupid kid's going there to look Jane up and make a total jackass out of me!"

Hardcastle scrambled out from behind his desk, grabbed his coat off the chair, and raced for the door.

Mark pulled the Coyote over to the curb, across the street and just down the block from a large white split-level house with a big front yard. There were two bicycles and some toys strewn about the lawn.

"That's it," he said.

"That's where Jane is staying with her sister?" Cyndy asked.

"Yep. Got the address direct from Bill Giles at police headquarters."

Just then a woman came out of the front door of the house and headed for a mid-sized car parked in the driveway.

"Is that her?" Cyndy asked.

Mark stared. "Yep, that's her."

The woman got into the car, backed it out of the driveway, and started down the street in the opposite direction from the Coyote.

"What do we do now?" Cyndy asked again.

Before Mark could think of a reply another car, a big dark sedan, shot by the Coyote, headed after Jane's car.

Some instinct told Mark to start the Coyote again and pull out to follow both cars. After a few blocks the road widened out a bit and became a divided highway, with a narrow grassy median between them. It was here that the large sedan suddenly sped up and rapidly approached Jane's car from behind.

"Whoa -- I don't like the looks of this!" Mark said. Just as he said that the sedan pulled out into the left lane as if it was going to pass Jane's car. But instead of passing it swerved to smash into the driver's side of Jane's car.

Jane managed to hold her damaged car on the road, but the sedan remained beside her. It swerved again, apparently trying to push Jane's car off the road.

Mark jammed his accelerator to the floor, and the Coyote leaped forward. He swerved to the left and jumped the curb onto the grassy median. Riding the median he quickly pulled up alongside the left side of the sedan.

The driver of the sedan rolled down his window and pointed a pistol at the Coyote. Cyndy screamed as the driver squeezed off two shots, puncturing holes in the Coyote's right side. Fortunately, because of the speed at which he was going he couldn't hold his gun level enough to aim accurately.

Suddenly a medium-sized tree loomed up in front of the Coyote. Cyndy screamed again as Mark yanked the wheel and barely missed it, skirting around it but managing to keep the Coyote on the median.

"See the can on the floor next to your seat?" he yelled at Cyndy, who was holding on for dear life. She glanced down and saw a quart-size container of red paint for the Coyote sitting in a pocket alongside her seat. She looked up and nodded to Mark.

"Pull the lid off and throw it at the sedan's windshield!" Mark shouted at her.

Cyndy pulled the lid off just as Mark had told her. Mark tried to pull the Coyote over as close to the sedan as he could without falling off the median. Cyndy cocked her left arm back and tossed the open can over at the sedan.

The can bounced off the sedan's hood and splattered its contents all over the car's windshield. His vision now obscured by the paint, the sedan's driver lost control of the car. As Jane's car and the Coyote sped on ahead, the sedan suddenly skidded sideways and flipped over on the roadway. It tumbled over and over a half dozen times before finally coming to rest on its roof.

Jane slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. Mark veered off the median back onto the pavement and parked just behind her. As soon as the Coyote came to a stop Mark jumped out and ran back to where the crumpled sedan sat in the middle of the highway. He bent down and pulled the driver out through the side window, quickly dragging his limp form over to the side of the road. Just as he got there the sedan blew up in a thunderous fireball, spewing hot metal and debris in every direction.

After the concussion spent itself Mark got up and trotted back to Jane's car and the Coyote. Cyndy and Jane were both standing there, holding onto each other and doing their best to try to keep each other calm.

"Mark!" Jane exclaimed when she recognized him. "What are you doing here?" She looked at the burning wreck sitting in the middle of the highway. "Who was that man, and why did he try to run me off the road?"

Mark shook his head. "I don't know," he said. Cyndy ran into his arms. Mark held her, as she was still trembling from the whole ordeal.

"And I thought traipsing through graveyards at midnight with you was frightening!" she said sarcastically.

Mark half-smiled at her and stared back at the wreck, a worried look on his face. He could already hear police and fire sirens approaching in the distance.

Mark took the cup of black coffee offered by Jane's sister, Anne, and raised it to his lips. Cyndy was already gulping hers. They were both sitting side-by-side on a couch in the living room of Anne's house.

Anne looked a lot like a younger version of her sister. "Maybe a little caffeine will settle your nerves!" she said. "Always works for me!"

She moved over to sit back down next to Jane on a second couch. Jane patted her sister's hand. "I'm so sorry about your car, Anne," she apologized. "The whole left side is caved in!"

"Oh forget it, Jane!" Anne replied. "I'm just glad you're all safe!"

"Safe?" Mark said, laughing sardonically. "Safe? Wait'll Hardcastle hears about this, and sees those bullet holes in the Coyote! My life won't be worth last year's laundry!"

Now it was Cyndy's turn to pat Mark's hand. "Oh, Mark, don't worry. He'll understand you were only trying to help."

Mark laughed again. "Cyndy, you don't know that man! If the chair at Sing Sing is available for rental, he'll have my butt in it in no time!"

Just then Anne's husband John, a big, nice-looking man with dark hair and broad shoulders, dressed in a business suit, barged in through the front door. He came into the living room and briefly looked over Mark and Cyndy. Then he went over to his wife.

"Anne, are you all right?" he asked. She stood up and he embraced her. Then he turned to Jane. "Jane, are you okay?"

Jane nodded. She was feeling extremely guilty for having brought all this trouble into her sister's life. But at least Anne's kids were in school and wouldn't know anything about it.

"Anne, I really think I should move out into a hotel," Jane said.

Anne looked at her sister. "You're staying right here until we find out what this is all about!" she said.

Mark swallowed hard before directing a question to Jane. "Ma'am, is it at all possible that …"

"…That Chip had something to do with this?" Jane said, finishing his question for him. A strange, sad look crossed her face. "You know, Mark, six months ago I would have said no without hesitation. But with all that has happened since then … well, I just don't know if Chip is capable of this kind of thing or not. But even if he was, he's been locked up in that detox center for over two weeks now. Even I haven't been allowed to see him. I don't see how he could possibly have arranged such a thing from there."

Just then there was a knock at the front door.

"Oh, no! Not another police officer!" Anne exclaimed. "Haven't we answered enough questions?" She got up and headed toward the door.

"If it's a reporter tell him we have nothing to say!" John called after her.

There was some muffled talk as Anne spoke to someone at the door for a moment. Then she came back into the room … followed closely by Milton C. Hardcastle.

Mark put his coffee cup down and tried to sink right down into the sofa.

"Jane, I'm really sorry to barge in to your private life like this, but …" Hardcastle began as soon as he saw Jane. Then he spotted Mark and Cyndy sitting on the couch.

"Hi, judge!" Mark said, standing up and acting as boyish and innocent as he knew how. "I can explain all of this! I really can! …"

Hardcastle waved his left hand violently at McCormick without raising it from his side. "Shut up, McCormick!" he spurted, half out of the corner of his mouth.

Jane got up and went over to Hardcastle.

"Milt, don't blame him!" she pleaded, putting her hands imploringly on his shoulders. "If it wasn't for Mark and Cyndy I wouldn't be here right now!"

Hardcastle allowed himself to be led over to the couch, where Jane sat him down and explained everything that had just happened.

"Did the cops have any idea who the guy in the sedan was?" Hardcastle asked, somewhat calmer after explanations had been made.

"No," Jane told him. "They're checking on that now."

"Probably just a hired thug," Hardcastle surmised. "The question is, who hired him. And why."

"It's not likely that it was Chip Meadows," Mark offered. "He's in quarantine in a detox unit. Besides, he's already been convicted of murder and embezzlement. Jane doesn't pose any danger to him at this point."

Hardcastle shot Mark an angry look, indicating that he hadn't totally forgiven him yet for coming to San Francisco in the first place. Mark quickly shut up and sank back into the couch.

Hardcastle turned to Jane. "Y'know, it might not be a bad idea to sequester you away somewhere until this whole thing blows over."

Jane looked at Anne. Anne had a resigned look on her face.

"It's up to you, Jane. Whatever you want to do," she said. "I know Judge Hardcastle's reputation. If he thinks you should hide out for a while until things cool down, then maybe it would be for the best. I trust his judgment."

At this statement Hardcastle grinned and looked at McCormick, who just shook his head.

"You're certainly welcome to stay on here if that's what you want to do," John said to Jane. "But it probably won't be long before this place will be crawling with reporters too. You and Chip are big news. Maybe it _would_ be a good idea for you to get away somewhere for a while, where they can't find you."

Mark couldn't resist. "Judge, she could stay at Gull's Way!" he said, grinning from ear to ear. "They'd never find her there!"

Hardcastle's face started to turn red as his blood pressure shot up again.

"Maybe Mark's right," Jane suddenly chimed in. "That is, if you'll have me, Milt."

She put her hand on Hardcastle's and smiled.

Now it was Hardcastle's turn to melt into the sofa.

The sun was just setting, and a light rain began to pelt the outside of the window of Hardcastle's den.

Hardcastle and Jane were sitting together on the sofa, drinking coffee. They had just finished cleaning up from dinner.

"You know, I actually _enjoyed_ washing the dishes with you in the kitchen!" Jane laughed. "You don't know how long it's been since I've done that! It was almost like a scene out of one of those old domestic black-and-white sitcoms they used to show on TV!"

"Yeah, well, neither one of us has had exactly what you would call a perfect life, like they had in those old shows," Hardcastle replied, smiling a little himself.

Jane sighed. "Yes, it certainly hasn't gone smoothly for either one of us, has it? You lost your son, and then your wife. And I lost my movie career, and then my husband."

"He's still alive, you know," Hardcastle reminded her.

"Yes, I know," Jane replied, putting down her coffee cup. "But he's not the same man I knew anymore, Milt. Oh, it started even before he began taking the medication. At one point I was almost a corporate widow, he spent so much time at the office. Everything was money, money, money. No matter how much we had in the bank, it was never enough. And then he started getting those awful attacks of depression. That's when the drinking started. I told him we needed to get away, to rediscover the simpler life we had had before in the beginning, but he wouldn't listen. Finally he got the company doctor to start prescribing those pills for his terrible mood swings. It just went downhill from there. We weren't husband and wife anymore. We were just ships that occasionally passed in the night."

Jane smiled sadly. "I guess he never _was_ the 'prince with yellow hair and a noble spirit' that I was searching for, Milt. I thought that, given a little time, maybe I could change him into what I wanted. But it didn't work. You can't change people. They are what they are, and you can't change that."

Hardcastle was just about to reply when Mark walked into the room, adjusting his sport coat. When he saw Jane and Hardcastle sitting together on the couch, he knew he had an opportunity for a jab that might never come again.

"Well, you two, I'm just about ready to go out now," he said, using his 'girly voice' and grinning from ear to ear. "Now, Milt, I want you to behave yourself while I'm gone! No hanky panky! And make sure you're _both_ in by midnight, or I'll have to ground you for the rest of the school year!"

A disgusted look crossed Hardcastle's face.

"All right, wise guy, go pick your partner-in-crime girlfriend up and don't worry about us!" he growled. "Unlike _some_ people I know, we're both mature adults that know how to keep our glands in check and treat each other with respect! Now get outta here!"

To emphasize his point, Hardcastle picked up a pillow from the couch and threw it in McCormick's direction. Mark deftly sidestepped the missile and slipped out the door, laughing.

"That kid can be a real pain in the keister sometimes!" Hardcastle grumbled, once Mark was gone. "Talking about changing people, I wish I could change that kid into a respectable member of society for once!"

Jane looked at him, a stern expression on her face. "Milt, you're not fooling me for a minute with that 'tough guy' routine! I know you think the world of Mark. I can see it whenever the two of you are together!"

Hardcastle grinned slightly, as if realizing that he had finally been found out.

"Yeah, he's okay," he admitted. "Underneath that egocentric, smart-aleck exterior the kid's got a really good heart. In fact, I'd trust him with my life if it ever came down to it."

At this confession Jane smiled in triumph.

"But if you ever tell him I said that I'll deny it!" Hardcastle quickly added.

They both laughed.

For the next few minutes they just sat quietly together, watching the rain splatter on the window. Then Jane moved her hand over to place it on top of Hardcastle's.

"We always knew how to 'speak without using words', didn't we Milt?" she said quietly, looking deep into Hardcastle's eyes.

As one they both leaned toward each other and kissed -- a kiss that lasted for a very long time.

It was close to 3 A.M. when the white-coated orderly stepped into room 215 of the metropolitan hospital's detox unit. The room was dark, and the tall, husky man walked over to Chip Meadows's bed.

For some moments he stared down at the sleeping man. Then he pulled a syringe out of his pocket, and injected its contents into the patient's intravenous drip bag.

Putting the empty needle back into his pocket he turned and quietly slipped out of the room.

Early the next afternoon Hardcastle answered the phone in his den. Jane came into the room a moment later and watched as Hardcastle listened to the voice on the other end.

"Okay, Bill, thanks a lot," Hardcastle finally said. He hung the phone up.

"What is it, Milt?" Jane asked. She could tell by Hardcastle's expression that the news was not good.

Hardcastle looked at her. "Chip passed away last night," he said.

Jane looked as if he had just been hit by a truck.

"Passed away? That's impossible!" she cried, almost hysterical. "He was only there to get the depression medications out of his system!"

"They're not sure how it happened yet," Hardcastle explained, "but they think he may have been poisoned."

Jane slumped down on the couch, completely dumbstruck. Hardcastle moved over to her and kneeled down next to her.

She put her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

Later that day Mark, dressed in his gardening clothes, sat across from Hardcastle at the table in the judge's kitchen. Mark kept shaking his head.

"It doesn't make any sense, judge!" Mark said. "Who would want to kill both Jane _and_ Chip? The only person with a possible motive would be Don Bates. But he's dead!"

"Maybe he's not!" Hardcastle countered. "Remember, no one saw him die except Meadows. And there's no body!"

Mark stood up and paced across the room. "Aw, c'mon, judge! That kinda stuff only happens in the movies! He's gotta be dead! Meadows had a perfectly good reason to get rid of him, just like he did Gleason. To cover up his tracks! _That _part at least makes sense!"

Hardcastle still was not totally convinced. "Maybe. But then the question is, is there anyone _else_ who would have a motive for offing both Jane and her husband?"

Mark shrugged his shoulders. He had no answer to that question. He came over and sat back down at the table.

"How's she taking it?" he asked, referring to Jane.

"She's upstairs resting in her room," Hardcastle replied. "Give her a little time. She'll be all right."

"So where do we go from here, kemosabe?"

Hardcastle absentmindedly played with a fork lying on the table. "Well, the only thing I can think of right now is, we've got to get some kind of bait to pull this killer back out into the open again, so we can grab him."

Mark looked at him. "And just how do we do that, without putting Jane in danger again?" he asked.

Hardcastle grinned. "Just leave it to me, kiddo!" he responded.

Hardcastle was sitting at his desk, studying his criminal files, when Jane came marching into the room holding a newspaper.

Mark, who just happened to be passing through the den at the same time on his way to the kitchen to get a drink of water, stopped in the middle of the room. He watched as Jane proceeded over to Hardcastle's desk and plopped the open newspaper down right in front of him, covering his file folders.

"Milton," she addressed him in a voice that totally meant business, "do you happen to know anything about this little news article that's on page 4 of today's _LA Times_?"

Hardcastle stopped what he was doing, and with a wide-eyed, innocent look on his face picked the newspaper up and feigned looking at it.

"Right there, at the bottom left side of page four," Jane told him.

Hardcastle directed his gaze to the spot where Jane was pointing. Somewhat nervously he cleared his throat and started to read.

"Nineteen forties movie star Jane Bigelow, widow of deceased Regency hotel chain executive Chapin 'Chip' Meadows, moves back into LA house previously occupied by the couple," Hardcastle recited.

He looked up, still trying to look wide-eyed and innocent.

"Keep reading," Jane instructed.

Hardcastle cleared his throat again and continued. "Though the estate has yet to be settled following the sudden death of her husband yesterday, Ms. Bigelow stated that, if at all possible, she intends to keep the LA house, and plans to live there at least until all legal and financial matters are cleared up."

Hardcastle stopped reading and looked up again. He was met with a glare from Jane that under other circumstances might have peeled the paint right off the side of a barn.

Desperate, he glanced over at Mark as if asking for help. But Mark would have none of it. He made a beeline for the kitchen.

"You're on your own this time, kemosabe!" Mark muttered, as he high-tailed it out of the room. Hardcastle glowered after him as he disappeared into the kitchen.

"Milton!" Jane repeated.

Hardcastle looked back at Jane. Now he knew just how all those criminals he had caught in the past had felt when Bill Giles or Frank Harper had put them through the third degree under all those hot lights.

"I'll be right there, judge, if you need me to back you up! I'll be your alibi! I'll be right there behind you!" Hardcastle recited to himself in a high-pitched, sing-song voice.

He was silent for a moment. Then he continued: "Yeah, sure, McCormick, you were right behind me, all right! Pushing me off the cliff!"

It was some time after 2 A.M., and Hardcastle was crouched down behind a large sofa in the darkened living room of Jane's old Los Angeles house. Just above him Mark suddenly leaned over the edge of the second floor balcony railing.

"Shhhhh!" Mark whispered down at him. "Geez, how can we conduct a decent stake-out here if you're gonna keep mumbling to yourself down there all night?"

"Get back to your post, McCormick!" Hardcastle retorted. "If we're gonna catch anybody, you gotta keep your mouth shut and your eyes open!"

Just then there was a faint clicking sound at the front door, as if someone was turning a key in the lock.

Hardcastle frantically waved his hand at McCormick, and both of them immediately fell silent. McCormick ducked back down behind the railing. Hardcastle shifted his position slightly, so that he could peer around one corner of the sofa.

After another few seconds the front door began to slowly inch open. A tall, dark figure entered the room. It turned and quietly closed the door. Then it started across the room toward the stairs to the second floor.

Suddenly the lights snapped on.

"Hold it right there!" Mark commanded. He stood upright now on the second floor balcony, his pistol aimed down at the figure crouching at the bottom of the stairs.

The figure was a tall man dressed all in black, with a ski mask pulled on over his head. He also had a pistol in his hand, and he immediately raised it and pulled off a shot at McCormick.

McCormick instantly dropped to the floor of the balcony, and the shot missed. As the intruder started to move back across the living room floor in order to get a better angle from which to fire on McCormick again, Hardcastle popped up from behind the sofa and, with his own pistol, clobbered the intruder right on the crown of his head. The masked man dropped like a stone.

Mark came running down the stairs as Hardcastle stood guard over his fallen foe.

"We got him!" Mark exclaimed. "We actually got him!"

"Yeah, no thanks to you!" Hardcastle barked, still sore over the newspaper incident the day before.

"Oh, c'mon judge, are you gonna hold a grudge over that for the rest of your life?" Mark lectured him.

"You bet I am!" Hardcastle shot back. Mark waved him off, then bent down and pulled the ski mask off the intruder's face. The face that stared back at both of them was totally unfamiliar.

"He's probably just another hired thug," Mark commented. "How are we gonna find out who hired him?"

"Simple," Hardcastle replied. "When he wakes up, we play the old 'good cop, bad cop' routine with him. He'll talk."

Mark grinned. He always loved another opportunity to do his Jack Nicholson 'crazy cop' impression.

It was a bright, sunny LA morning as Mark passed through the first floor lobby of the downtown offices of the Regency hotel chain. He headed for the elevator.

Once inside he went to the eighth floor. Exiting the conveyance he headed down the hallway until he came to a door marked "Controller". He opened it and stepped inside.

Inside the Controller's outer office he walked right by the secretary sitting at her desk. He headed straight for the inner office door.

"Hey, wait a minute!" the secretary protested. "You can't go in there!"

Mark ignored her and entered the inner office.

Once inside the inner office he proceeded to the center of the floor and stopped, facing the man sitting at the Controller's desk.

"Hiya Mr. Bates!" Mark said cheerfully. "Nice day!"

The man behind the desk looked at him. "Do I know you?" he responded quizzically.

"No, but I know you!" Mark replied. "You're Harry Bates. You've worked here for about twenty years now, and you inherited your current position as Controller when your brother, Don, passed away last year."

"That's right," Harry Bates said in a business-like voice.

Mark moved over and perched himself on the arm of the chair sitting in front of Bates's desk.

"I also happen to know that you just had Chip Meadows killed, and you orchestrated an attempt on his wife, Jane, too -- out of revenge for your brother's murder," he said, smirking. "We grabbed the man you sent to kill Jane, and he told us the whole story."

Bates started to rise from his chair. Abruptly he grabbed a heavy porcelain ashtray from his desk and threw it right at Mark's head.

Mark had figured his last statement would invite some kind of retaliation. He jerked backwards to avoid the deadly missile. Unfortunately this put him off balance, and he fell off the chair onto the floor.

Bates took the opportunity to race out of the office. Mark regained his feet and quickly followed Bates out into the hallway. He saw him duck into the elevator at the end of the hall.

Mark sprinted toward the elevator, but the door closed just as he got there.

Bates took the elevator down to the underground parking garage of the building. As soon as the doors opened he jumped out and headed toward a nearby car parked in a space labeled "Controller". He pulled his car keys out of his pocket and fumbled with the door lock.

Before he could yank the door open a hand landed hard on his right shoulder and spun him completely around.

For just one second Harry Bates stared into the angry eyes of an avenging angel named Milton C. Hardcastle.

The next second a hammy fist belted him right across the jaw, and he knew nothing else.

It wasn't very long until sundown, and Jane stood quietly on the shoreline of Seagull Beach, staring silently at the sun-tipped waves lapping out on the ocean.

After a few minutes Hardcastle came walking out onto the beach. He came up beside Jane, and they both stood there together.

Finally he put his arm around her. She leaned her head onto his shoulder.

They stood that way for a long time, communicating with each other without words.

THE END

_This story is dedicated to the enduring memory of Brian Keith (1921-1997)._


End file.
